Radioactive
by BlackNymph
Summary: He thinks, sometimes, that he should just leave it to his imagination. But, sometimes, it just hurts so much. One-sided Snape/Lily. Student-teacher relationship ish, and I blame that thoroughly on Pottermore.


Her hair was silk when he threaded his fingers through, soft and smooth and strong enough to cut like wire. It was shorter, like it had been in their seventh year when it was apparently the fashion. Tenderly, tenderly he tightened his grip, pulled her head back (_a soft gasp_), planted his lips ever-gently along the column of her throat.

He didn't inhale. He didn't need to. Her scent was as vivid then as it had been fifteen years ago, spice and musk but irrevocably sweet.

Featherlight, almost absently, he trailed the fingers of his other hand down the dip in the small of her back, down the underside of her thigh, and tugged when they reached her knee, pulling her hips more immediately against his. He was sure he'd told her to keep her eyes closed, but they fluttered open in playful surprise, bright and wide in the firelight.

The barest snarl in his throat, he tugged at her hair again and clamped more firmly down on her neck, drawing the taste out of her in one vicious suck. She let out a high pitch mewl, almost pain but not quite, and her hips ground up against him, her leg hooking behind his back to allow his hand back to the small of her back.

They taunted each other a bit, then, a sort of spiteful dance, almost there, ever-closer; he kneaded the gentle curve of her spine, and she retaliated by reaching between their bodies to cup him.

It was almost cruel of him, when he thrust himself inside of her without warning, but the swell of satisfaction around him made it a kindness also.

He didn't have to be generous with her; she knew what she wanted, and when and where and _harder, yes_. For the same reason, it didn't take long for them to find their rhythm, at once a gentle rock and fierce _need_.

She had finished herself at the behest of her own fingers (and, as puppetmaster, of his) twice, thrice, he lost count, before he finally came. Her nostrils flared sharply, inhaling, and with a sigh, she came once more.

While he soared his high, she slipped from him and slunk to her knees, a glint of mischief in her eyes and the smirk on her lips. She had licked the length of him before he understood, and he jolted back in revulsion.

Immediately, his fingers were back in her hair, but there was nothing tender in his grip, nothing silk about her. He lowered coal black eyes to her face and snarled, "Out."

It was unclear whether she shot away from him, or if he had flung her, but when he looked again she was gone, leaving only her warm impression in his blankets. He sat for a long while, his eyes closed, trying very hard to supplant in his mind the scent that remained and the scent from his memory.

"Next week, we will be working heavily on falsifying potions – you will each choose two potions, one you will make, and the other you are to convince me you are making." A small smirk twists his lips. "House points to whoever can manage it. Think hard on it. Dismissed." He waves his hands, not for the first time appreciating the effect his batlike sleeves produce in the students.

The room clears almost instantly, students scrambling for their texts and through the aisles to the door. A few stragglers remain, unintimidated by their professor for one reason or another; he turns his back on them disdainfully, glancing over the scrolls on his desk.

"Professor?"

He turns, an eyebrow deftly cocked as his mouth hardens into a line.

The look on her face is, frankly, baffled. She tosses her hair, too dark and too auburn, over her shoulder and holds up a wearied scroll, littered with red marks in the margins. "Professor, I was wondering what – "

"I do not do grade adjustments, Miss Duvall. You know that."

Her hazel eyes, almost green in candlelight, narrow in further confusion, and, perhaps, anger. She scrunches her nose, which he notices for the first time is too wide, in a way she must think cute. "Professor, I'm not sure what you think –"

He has his face on fully now, chill and commanding, and the sneer absolutely drips from his tone. "Miss Duvall, I'm not sure what iyou/i think is happening, but you do not receive marks for trying, and you do not receive marks for failure. You can learn from the corrections on your essay, but do not dream for one second that you can simply take back your mistakes."

She flushes fully now, anger prominent in her face, bringing her freckles sharply into focus, and her mouth opens, presumably to threaten, then closes dumbly. "Yes Professor," she grates out. "I most certainly will remember that." And she turns smartly on her heel and stomps from his sight.

"And Miss Duvall?"

She stiffens, and turns back to him.

"Ten points from Ravenclaw. You are a disgrace to your house."


End file.
